At Death's Door
by Celtic Amazon
Summary: The Winchesters and a newly human Castiel, have barely finished recovering from their run in with Pestilence,and are now racing to track down the final horseman: Death.
1. Introitus

_This is AU. The end of Season 5 needed more horseman action, more friendship and comfort between our boys and their angel, more human!Cas and hey, who couldn't do with a little more angelwhump? (In my humble opinion) Ah for the day when I have my own successful TV series and can run amok. For now, I just borrow Supernatural's toys, and make no money doing it._

_Warnings: No need. Do characters on Supernatural ever really stay dead do they? The next chapter should begin to clear things up a bit; this is just a taste of things to come._

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Vacant blue eyes stare sightlessly up at the darkening sky. The light breeze that tousles the dark hair, and tugs mournfully at the tan coat wrapped around the body go unfelt. No sound disturbs the quiet of the cemetery save for the rhythm of a shovel breaking the earth, digging a grave. The man doing the digging never pauses, never tires; does not spare the body lying beside its intended grave a single sideways glance.

A few feet away, perched on a nearby monument, a young woman with dark hair, and even darker eyes, that have swallowed pupil, iris and all in their abyss, sits watching these proceedings. A small smile curves her sensual lips. Between her fingers, the demon girl twirls a delicate gold chain with a tarnished ring on it. The grave digger is an old man, one that looks far too elderly and well dressed to be performing the hot dirty work of digging a grave on a warm summer's day, but he does so tirelessly, and with single-minded purpose as the woman with the unholy eyes looks on.

When he's dug to a satisfying depth, he tosses aside the shovel and reaches for the body beside him, hauling it over to the yawning mouth of the grave.

"Wait."

He stops instantly at the command.

The demon walks over, taking her time, savouring the moment.

"Give us some privacy would you?"

The old man steps blankly aside, and she pockets the ring, and kneels beside the body.

"Poor Clarence," she murmurs, eyes glittering with pleasure, "And here I was," her hands splay across the chest of the man in the trench coat, nails scraping along seductively, "All ready to corrupt you. Oh and wouldn't _that _have been fun..." She gives a mock pout and leans down closer to the lifeless blue gaze, "But you just had to go and get yourself killed before the fun could even begin hmm?" Her fingers slide down to the hem of his white shirt and tug the edge, and quest lower past the waist of the dark pants, to reveal a sigil carved above his right hip, "Well, maybe not _all_ the fun," she purrs, fingers tracing the wound, "That's right angel boy... you're locked up nice and tight in here. No going to heaven or even destruction and oblivion for that pretty little soul of yours. No, you'll stay right here, tied to this yummy packaging you picked out." She traces the line of his jaw with a single finger and licks her lips, "You would make a nice chew toy wouldn't you?" she chuckles, "But as much as I'd like to keep you above ground and have some play time...hm...desecrating an angel...sounds fun doesn't it? Rules are rules. You know these rituals, very particular things and all that. So into the box you go."

She rises and in one fluid movement, kicks the body so that it rolls gracelessly to thud in the bottom of the freshly dug grave, and the wooden coffin inside. She stands up, brushing the dirt off of her jeans, sighing irritably at the stains. The old man stands stalk still a few feet away, and she spares him an impatient glare.

'Well? What are you waiting for? Cover it up."

The lid of the coffin clunks shut, and shovelfuls of dirt rain down on it, covering the body of the former angel of The Lord.

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_Thanks for reading. Stay tuned: more to come! Reviews feed the muse :)  
_

_~Amazon_


	2. Kyrie Eleison

_First thing's first" Sorry for the delay in updating. Life decided to spontaneously combust during the last few weeks, so I haven't had much time to write. But here it is at last, I'm shaking off the rust and getting back in business._

_Disclaimer: If I owned or profited from this in any way, I would have better air conditioning, I can tell you that much._

**KYRIE ELEISON -**

_Three days earlier..._

He returns the razor to the shaving kit beside him on the counter. There. Clean shaven again. He splashes water on his face, and reaches blindly for the towel, pats the skin dry, and takes stock of the face in the mirror. The shadows under the blue eyes that stare back at him are darker than the previous day, even after a passable interval of sleep. He frowns. Dean's informed him four to six hours should keep his vessel in good repair, but he's learning that more important than just laying down to rest during that interval, is how much of that time is actually spent in peaceful sleep, undisturbed by nightmares or restlessness. He runs the pads of his fingers slowly along the now smooth skin of his jaw. It's taken some practice, but he's now satisfactorily capable of shaving without drawing blood. He spares a brief glance for his spiky tousled hair, but at this point, he's more or less deemed it a lost cause. It is constantly sticking out at odd angles, and The Winchesters aren't likely to provide any useful insight on that front. Dean's hair is short enough to be immune to these kinds of problems, and he can't imagine Sam does anything in particular with his, judging by its usual appearance.

"Cas?"

Dean's voice from the other side of the door interrupts his musings.

"You just about done in there? Sam's gettin' antsy out here; wants to put his makeup on before we head out."

Some grumbling follows from the other side of the door, followed by a distinct "bitch" and the answering "jerk". Castiel grabs his tie from the towel rack and steps out of the bathroom, narrowly avoiding an airborne towel launched at Sam, who slips into the bathroom and closes the door behind him. He pads across the threadbare carpet of the motel room and makes his way over to the mirror by the door. He slings his tie across his neck and pops up the collar of his dress shirt.

"Seriously?"

He sees Dean's reflection in the glass, one eyebrow raised as he watches him adjust the tie. Castiel ignores him and concentrates on knotting it correctly.

"Dude, you do realize you don't have to wear that thing every day."

"Yes, I'm aware."

He finishes the knot and picks up his suit jacket from the back of a chair. It isn't the original jacket. After checking him out of the hospital three days ago, Sam and Dean took him shopping for new clothes. At the time, Dean gave him an equally exasperated look, when he emerged with another pair of dress pants, white shirts, a jacket, and a new tie, identical to the original set. It's what Jimmy clothed himself in to go out to do God's work (or at least what he thought was God's work). Why shouldn't it be good enough for him? More importantly though, he wants this body to remain in the image of how it was when he took over it as his vessel. True, though he no longer hears Jimmy's soul speak to him, he tries to live these days lately reminding himself that this is meant to be a temporary arrangement. This body is supposed to go back to its owner when this is over. It is not his. This body is not him. He is something else, and when the time is right he will go back to being that and only that. This state of humanity is a temporary one. It has to be.

Dean clears his throat awkwardly, and Castiel frowns realizing Dean's caught him "spacing" as the hunter calls it. He crosses over to one of the beds and sits patiently, listening as Sam finishes his routine in the bathroom. Dean pours himself a cup of coffee and a second one for Castiel. He hands it to him, and Castiel accepts. He isn't certain if he likes coffee yet. The taste is bitter and some mornings the caffeine gives him a strange feeling like his skin is buzzing, but he accepts the mug and takes a sip anyway. It's routine with the Winchesters and since he's now earthbound, their daily rituals are his as well.

"How'd you sleep?"

Dean doesn't look at him directly when asking this question, apparently absorbed in his coffee, a sign of concern Castiel has come to realize, the opposite of what Dean is trying to portray in his nonchalant attitude.

"In intervals," he answers carefully.

The subject of sleep still makes him uncomfortable. The thought of willingly rendering himself unconscious and losing the awareness of several hours at a time is still unsettling. Worse still that if he does not do it, everything from his ability to concentrate to his ability not to have a pounding headache the next day is compromised.

"Pain?" The hunter asks, settling leaning against the counter in the kitchenette, another reinforcement of his nonchalance.

Castiel shakes his head, "No..." he takes a sip of his coffee, a useful tactic for delaying in answering he's learned.

"Because if you're out of what they gave you at the hospital..."

"No." He sighs, "I am, but the pain is manageable without it."

"Good."

There's more to that than the hunter's saying, but before Castiel can ask, Sam emerges from the bathroom.

"Ready to go?"

Dean nods at his younger brother, "You done beautifying yourself?"

Sam rolls his eyes and grabs his duffle bag off the floor.

Castiel climbs into the back of the Impala behind the passenger seat, and The Winchesters follow, Dean settling into the driver's seat and popping a cassette into the tape deck. As the music comes on, Sam mutters a comment under his breath to which Dean cranks the volume and makes a show of yelling "What?" over the blaring of the speakers. They pull out of the motel parking lot and get on the highway, destined for Bobby Singer's.

.

What must be a few hours later, Castiel wakes to find they've pulled over at a roadside diner. Sam watches him unfold himself from his position curled against the Impala's back door, and Castiel pauses self-consciously.

But Sam grins, "Cas. I don't know how you do that, but you're the only person I know who can sleep through two hours of ACDC and Metallica." He looks pointedly at Dean, who shrugs, "The rest of us aren't that lucky."

"His snoring drowns it out for him," Dean asserts, climbing out of the car.

"I snore?"

The Winchesters share an amused look at his apparent obliviousness and Dean claps a hand on his shoulder, "C'mon, Cas, let's grab some breakfast."

Inside the diner looks like it hasn't seen much in the way of renovations since the 1950s, but nearly every booth is full and the restaurant is brimming with the sound of conversation and clattering dishes. Castiel can smell food cooking, and his stomach growls in answer.

"Hi there," a petite silver haired waitress greets them, "Your friend's just over at the table by the jukebox," she informs them, hitching a thumb in that direction, "He came in about ten minutes ago, said he was waiting for three other gentleman. I'm assuming that's you folks..."

Castiel looks where she's indicated, and feels his hackles rise. Sitting at a table sipping a cup of tea, is the demon Crowley. The demon looks up from his paper and gives a smug wave. Castiel feels a growl rise in his throat. Lucifer's spawn still set off that primeval urge to smite, irreverent to his current capability to do so.

The waitress, taking in their expressions fiddles nervously with the menus in her hands, "Or maybe I'm mistaken...I can find you folks a different table..."

"No, it's fine," Sam tells her, "thanks."

They make their way to the table, and Castiel can't stop his fists from clenching. He should walk up to that abomination without hesitation and burn the demonic filth right out of the human vessel with a single touch. But it's a very long time since that's been an option for him, and instead, he's forced to sit at the table and suffer the impertinent once-over the demon gives him.

"So it's true then is it? Gone native?"

Castiel glares at him, "What do you want?"

"Just a little chat," Crowley says, stirring his tea nonchalantly under the combined glare of The Winchesters and the former angel, "I thought maybe we'd do it over breakfast."

Dean shifts subtly in his seat, but none of them, least of all Crowley, miss him unsheathing Ruby's knife and resting it threateningly on his knee, "A chat huh? How 'bout we _chat_ about you screwing us over with the colt."

"An honest mistake," Crowley shrugs, "I had every reason to believe it would work."

"Oh, an honest mistake, well then everything's just fine and dandy isn't it?" Dean growls.

Crowley sets down his tea cup and turns to Sam, "Your brother isn't the most clear-headed individual is he? Even if you somehow put together the requisite coordination to stab me with that knife," he reminds Dean, "You're still surrounded by charming little families here and little rug rats who probably should be spared the sight of murder with their morning Cheerios. So perhaps you want to shut up and listen to what I'm going to tell you, if you want to have even the most remote hope of finding the last horseman."

Sam shares a look with his brother, "What makes you think we're looking for him?"

"Really, sometimes your obliviousness is remarkable," Crowley sighs, "The same way I knew you'd be here this morning. I planted a certain magic coin in your car and so for the last few weeks have had a rather depressing window into the calibre of conversation that goes on between you."

The waitress comes back, her smile a little nervous, "Would you folks like to order now?"

Crowley looks up at her and smiles, "Ah Mabel," he says looking at her name tag, "Yes of course, I'll have the pancake special. Extra syrup hm?"

"Sure thing," Mabel scrawls something on her pad, a little more at ease, "Anything for you honey?" she asks Castiel.

He is about to say no, because quite frankly he doesn't break bread with demons under any circumstance, but his stomach has other ideas and complains loudly. In the end they all order, and Castiel settles in to scanning the other patrons trying to determine if there are any other demons in their midst, but it's considerably harder without his angelic abilities.

"So...you're going to help us find the horseman?" Sam asks incredulously.

Crowley takes another sip of tea, "Give the lad a prize."

"And why the hell should we trust you?"

"Dean," Crowley folds his hands on the table top, "What you should more appropriately be asking yourselves at this point, is do you really have a choice? I take it Sam's hit a dead end in his research efforts, hence the return to Bobby's. I happen to know that Death's been whisked off to some undisclosed location. I can help you find that location."

Castiel watches him warily, "If Lucifer hasn't unleashed Death's powers yet, he's waiting for something."

"Well, well, well," Crowley muses, "So you do actually share a functioning brain between the three of you. Yes, Lucifer is waiting for his big curtain call a little longer it seems, one final ritual to be completed. In the meantime, we have a very small window of opportunity to find the horseman and relieve him of his ring."

'What kind of ritual?" Sam asks, lowering his voice.

"That I don't know."

"Great," Dean mutters.

"Listen," Crowley sighs, "I've risked a great deal already meeting here with you in the midst of all these other flannel wearers. Now do you want to know how to find the horseman or not?"

Sam speaks up before anyone else can, 'We're listening."

"With Death under Lucifer's thumb, the reapers are also more or less enslaved at this point. They take their orders from Death, and for the moment, he's taking his orders from Lucifer. But," Crowley pulls a piece of paper from his suit jacket and lays it on the table, "There is a certain spell that releases a reaper from his service to Death."The demon takes in the general blank looks, and sighs again dramatically, "AND released from the gag order currently on him, a reaper might be of some use in finding his boss..."

Understanding dawns on them and Crowley smiles, "Ah! Now I see the abacus clacking."

"Except for one problem," Sam points out, "Reapers don't make house calls unless someone's about to die, and even then, only the one their coming directly at can see them."

"Yes," Crowley nods, "And I leave that little detail up to your moral pondering."

The waitress arrives with their orders, and Crowley smothers his plate in syrup, before delicately digging in.

"What do you think Cas?" Dean asks.

Castiel keeps his eyes on Crowley as he reaches for the folded piece of paper the demon produced. He opens it and examines the symbols and the incantation. He's never seen this particular combination before, but he'd bet on the authenticity of it.

"It seems legitimate."

"There you are," Crowley waves a hand at Castiel, as he reaches for a napkin with the other, "The angelic seal of approval."

The hunters lean in to get a closer look at the paper.

Dean frowns at the symbols, "This had better be-"

But he's interrupted by Crowley's sudden disappearance.

"Seriously?" Dean asks the empty air, "You dine-and-dash?"

Sam looks around furtively, but none of the other diners seems to have noticed Crowley's vanishing act. He retrieves his credit card and goes to the counter to pay. Resignedly, Dean finishes off his eggs and Castiel takes a last bite of toast as he folds up the paper and stows it in the pocket of his trench coat. Sam returns a few moments later and drains the last of his coffee.

"What now?"

"First of all," Dean grumbles, "We go looking for the demonic spare change Crowley apparently left in my freakin' car."

.

The search for the charmed coin doesn't yield much result, and Dean seems to take this as a sign to blare the music twice as loud as usual to drown out any possibility that a conversation could get overheard. Needless to say, Castiel doesn't get any further sleep on the way to Bobby's. It's likely though, he decides, that it has as much to do with the volume of the music, as the feeling of agitation he can't seem to shake since encountering Crowley this morning. A demon sat not three feet away from him, and he made absolutely no move to rub the spawn of evil out of existence. He was in fact powerless to do so. He watched the son of a bitch drink tea...

"Cas?"

He looks up startled to notice they've actually arrived at Bobby's. He nods to Sam and gets out of the car. Once inside, Bobby listens to the story of their encounter with Crowley punctuating it liberally with muttered "idjits."

"And you two yahoos are just going to run off looking for reapers because a demon tells you to?"

Dean raises his hands defensively, "Hey, if you've got something better, Bobby, don't hold out on us."

Bobby takes off his baseball cap and scratches his head irritably, "Alright, well at least let me see the damn ritual he gave you."

Castiel produces it and hands it to the older hunter, who examines the paper thoughtfully.

"What do you think?" Sam asks anxiously.

After a few seconds, Bobby looks up and hands the paper back to Castiel. He folds it and returns it to his trench coat, seemingly haven been given charge of it.

"No guarantee, demons bein' lying sons of bitches and all," he warns," but it might be what he says." He looks at Castiel thoughtfully, "And you think it's the real thing, Cas?"

"Yes."

As loathe as he is to trust or accept anything coming from the spawn of Lucifer, he doesn't see anything suspicious in the ritual itself.

Bobby shakes his head, "Great. Well if you somehow manage to track down _a reaper_ and use it you'll be all set."

"There has to be a way to summon one," Sam says leaning back against the kitchen counter, "Without you know...anyone being at death's door."

"What about Cas?"

Dean looks at the older hunter sceptically "What about him?"

"You saw the reapers in Carthage didn't you?" Bobby asks.

Castiel frowns, into the glass of water in front of him, "Yes..."

"Well," Bobby continues, "All you have to do is find someone dying...maybe swing by a hospital and wait for someone to code. Cas should be able to see the reaper coming."

"Not necessarily."

He is thinking about this morning in the diner. He never sensed Crowley's presence until he was looking right at him, nor was he able to pick up on any other demonic presence, not necessarily indicating a lack of other demons...but maybe an inability to sense any that had been there.

"I don't know yet what I can or can't see without..." there's a sudden tightness in his throat.

"Without your mojo," Dean finishes quietly.

"Yes."

"But you don't know for sure," Sam asserts, "There's still a chance. And we're not looking at a whole lot of other options right now."

"Well this is peachy," Dean mutters, "another Crowley inspired plan. Considering the last one went so well..."

"Look, I'm not saying we trust him," Sam reasons, "Just that if he's going to give us anything even with the remote possibility of being useful, we try to use it to our advantage."

Bobby sighs, "I hate to say it, but I'm gonna have to agree with Sam on this one."

"Okay," Dean concedes reluctantly, "let's find ourselves a reaper. You in Cas?"

He seriously doubts his ability to be useful in this venture, but he nods anyway, and forces a wry smile.

"Of course."

...

_Thanks for reading. I'm glad to be getting back into the swing of this story. More to come, and more frequent updates hopefully!_

_Reviews feed the muse :)_

_~Amazon_


	3. Canticum Graduum

_I've returned! I'm not usually a fan of the long hiatus (usually because it's a story or a show I desperately want back that goes on one) but I really needed one on this story and just because real life tends to be a demanding mistress like that, I took one to regroup._

_But I've returned with new evil tenacity for putting the boys and their angelic BFF in predicaments. _

_Disclaimer: I am the proud owner of my imagination only. The complete and utter lack of any money whatsoever being made from this fic is also mine._

_Disclaimer 2 (The Disclaimer Returns): I know NOTHING about medicine or science. Everything I say should be taken as inaccurately entertaining _

**CANTICUM GRADUUM**

They might have wanted to think this through more. Sure, in theory it all sounded simple enough, just hang around the ICU waiting for someone to croak, but it's not exactly the most subtle way to spend their time. Even dressing all three of them in scrubs hasn't done a hell of a lot to help them fly under the radar. They're still three people hanging out just waiting for the crash cart to come barrelling down the hallway so they can run after it. It kind of feels like playing the part of the vulture flying over the desert just waiting for someone to keel over so they can swoop down. Dean goes for a charming, innocent smile when a nurse catches his eye, but he's still got the vulture thing in his head.

Their track record with reapers sucks to say the least, and no one brings up Pamela, and how royally they screwed up the last time, but it's hanging there in the air, implied, that they're not going to involve anyone else in this, not again. So they're stuck on a reaper stakeout for the time being. Right now, their plan is suffering two major set-backs. One: No one's coded yet. Two: Even if someone codes, how do they manage to run into a room full of doctors and nurses and perform some serious voodoo and have a little chat with a reaper without getting their asses hauled out of there? Or possibly worse, without someone grabbing them thinking they've got medical training beyond: pour a little whiskey on it and stitch it if it doesn't stop bleeding... Cas doesn't even have that.

At the moment, the former angel's probably doing the worst job of staying incognito out of the three of them. He's standing there with a mop (the prop Dean handed him in the faint hope that the guy would clue in and at least pretend to have a legit reason for being here). But he's just sort of standing very still with his head tilted, as if trying to listen for something. At some point Dean made what was apparently the almighty mistake of asking Cas if he was getting some angel radio or something, but the former angel went so quiet Dean's starting to think he's going to need a search rescue to team to get his damn foot out of his mouth. Of course the guy isn't hearing any heavenly chatter, being cut off from the home office as he is. And as for Cas being able to see the reapers when the time comes...

Dean's mind keeps going back to the last time he was in a hospital with Cas. They'd stepped out the front doors, ready to leave the damn place after a week of Cas gritting his way through recovery, sometimes bewildered by all of the new shit he was learning human beings have to deal with on a daily basis, sometimes just so damn quiet and stricken, it left Dean with the uncomfortable feeling that it wasn't as simple as Cas just having to make do without super-human powers like the rest of them, but that a sizeable chunk had been taken out of his friend. Cas had been breathing free air for the first time in a week, standing there looking kind of comically sad, dwarfed in one of Sam's hoodies, and Dean had turned to him and asked:

"How bad _is_ it?"

Cas' unreadable blue gaze had stayed levelled out across the parking lot.

"It's not that bad..." the former angel had lied softly.

"Cas..."

"It's..." he'd frowned apparently searching for the right words, "disorienting...I've lost senses I used to depend on."

"You gonna be okay?"

"Yes."

And that subject had been effectively closed for business.

Another nurse walks by, and that's the second disarming smile Dean's had to dish out in less than five minutes and he's beginning to feel like maybe this whole thing's going to go south after all, when there's an announcement over the hospital's PA.

"Code blue. Code blue. 602."

A flurry of activity erupts from down the hall and a team of doctors go charging by with a crash cart. He sees Sam round the corner and Cas follows suit and they get caught up in the flurry of activity. In the room at the end of the hall, a woman is being basically swarmed by nurses and a doctor. Dean lets Cas go ahead of him and the angel strides purposefully past him into the room. He and Sam stay at the door watching Cas watch the proceedings, so far going unnoticed. They shock the woman twice with the paddles with little result, and Dean feels his stomach drop. It reminds him too much of standing there watching them work on his dad, and he has to look away.

"Call it."

He looks up as a nurse records the time of death. Cas is still standing at the periphery a frown of concentration on his face. Sam, who's standing at the ready with the ritual looks at the former angel then back at him unsure, and Dean shrugs. The doctors begin to file out leaving the family to grieve and Castiel follows them out into the hall.

"Anything?" Dean asks quietly.

"No," Cas answers, still watching the deathbed scene, and the family crying and gathering around the body.

"C'mon," Sam puts an arm on the former angel's elbow and they retreat down the hall to give the family some privacy.

"So what now?"

Cas sighs and looks away, "I think we need a new plan."

Sam turns over the ritual thoughtfully in his hand, "Last time we needed to track down a reaper..." it's a subject no one really wants to dwell on and Sam ploughs ahead, "Well, we needed to be on the astral plane right?"

"Yeah," Dean frowns at his brother, "But how do we get there this time? I mean... Y'know without getting someone killed."

"We find someone who's already there. A spirit," Cas contributes.

Sam nods, "Yeah that's what I'm thinking."

"Worth a try," Dean considers, "I mean assuming we find a spirit who's not at rest and for some reason decides to be our handy little helper for a few hours."

They decide to start their search in the hospital since they're already there, and the basement gets nominated as the starting point. They only have two EMF detectors and Dean and Cas pair up, with Sam searching across the hall. The only staff they run into don't seem too interested in their presence once they've seen the fake clipped to their stolen uniforms.

"So..." Dean gives the hall a quick once over before pulling out his kit and getting to jimmying the lock on the door to the morgue, "You didn't see it?"

"The reaper. No."

Cas is squinting at the the EMF detector.

Dean spares the former angel a quick glance but Cas is pointedly absorbed in watching the needle flicker.

The lock pops and clicks and they're in.

"You picking up anything?"

Cas looks up, and shakes his head."Not yet."

Dean finds the light switch, and the bare fluorescent bulbs sputter to life to reveal rows of stainless steel tables and walls of metal drawers. Cas hands the EMF detector back to him, and they make a careful circuit of the room. As they get closer to the opposite wall, the needle begins to jump and they get their first positive reading. The closer they get to the back wall, the stronger it gets, until they're standing in front of a barred metal door with nothing but a 6 painted on it in flaking white paint. Dean hands the EMF detector back to Cas and gets a closer look at the bar locked into place.

"Peachy," he grumbles, "This could take a minute."

He catches Cas giving the door a hard look as if he's going to blow it open with nothing but the intensity of his gaze. Then Dean remembers that not so long ago that was a pretty big possibility.

"Cas?..." he's relieved when the former angel looks away from his staring contest with the door, "Can you uh, grab Sam and tell him we found-"

He's interrupted by the door to the morgue swinging open. A geeky looking guy in a white lab coat and a nervous looking blonde a couple million miles out of the guy's league, stop in the doorway when they see the room isn't empty. They look like med school students.

"Warren," the woman hisses, "I thought you said no one was down here!"

The geeky guy scowls at her, then turns to Dean, "You gentleman have some ID?"

From the shifty look of these two, Dean's betting they're not supposed to be here either, "Yeah sparky we've got ID. How about you and Grey's Anatomy there?"

"You first," the blonde demands.

"I show you mine, you show me yours?" Dean smirks.

Cas sighs beside him and he's pretty sure the angel's missing that handy ability to knock people out with a quick, painless tap on the forehead.

"Wait a second..." Warren pushes past his partner into the room, "Is that what I think it is?" he asks looking at the EMF detector in Cas' hand.

"That depends what you think it is," the former angel answers carefully.

"It is." He breathes a sigh of relief and turns back to the blonde, "It's Okay Jesse close the door. They've got an EMF detector. It's Carter and I'm guessing his assistant. Right?" he looks to Dean for confirmation.

_Who is this guy? Some kind of poser amateur ghost hunter?_

"Yeah, that's right." Dean nudges Cas.

"Uh...yes." the former angel seconds him after a minute.

"I thought your flight got delayed," Jesse says, folding her arms, not looking entirely convinced.

Dean shrugs, "We took a bus. We didn't want to miss...you know...anything."

"This is such a dumb idea," Jesse grumbles, "How do you even know if it's them? I mean did you even ask for a picture all that time you were talking to this Carter guy on that stupid internet forum?"

"We didn't exchange pictures, Jesse," Warren informs her with a superior roll of his eyes, "We _are_ trying to keep this research under wraps remember?"

"Yeah," Dean chimes in, "We want to keep this...stuff a secret."

Warren pulls out an EMF detector from the duffel bag he's carrying and a set of keys, "Shall we? The lab's just through that door," he says motioning to the barred door near where Dean and Castiel are standing. "Lots of paranormal spirit activity in that old section."

"Great," Dean steps aside for Warren to open the lock.

Just as he's sliding the heavy bar back, Sam appears, EMF detector in hand. He looks from Warren to Jesse to Dean to Cas and finally back to Dean, trying to figure out who the new additions are.

"Oh good!" Dean says a little too loudly, "Uh this is my assistant. My...other assistant."

That gets him a pretty comical bitch/confused face from Sam, and a suspicious glare from Jesse.

"Now you have _two_ assistants? Right. And why didn't you mention him before?"

"Jesse," Warren looks at her condescendingly, "he's got an EMF detector too. He's obviously with him. Anyway, it'll be easier to have an extra pair of hands to take readings." He turns to Dean and whispers, "These two don't think they're going to get their names on anything we publish right?"

"No. No are you kidding?" Dean chuckles, "They're just lab monkeys."

Sam and Jesse are both scowling at him by the time they get the door open and make it into the next room. All three EMF detectors go ballistic and Warren hits a light switch.

"Home sweet home," he announces, "This is where we've been doing our research. Once we're published, we're going to turn this place into a legit lab. I'm thinking of calling it the Morgendorfer NDE and Paranormal Research Lab."

"Of course you'd name it after yourself like a complete tool," Jesse mutters, crossing to a table in the centre of the room and flipping on some machinery clustered around what looks like an exam table.

"So NDEs...You research near death experiences?" Sam asks, watching Jesse.

"Man," Warren looks annoyed, "you didn't explain it to your assistant, Carter?" he asks Dean.

"Yeah, well," Dean shrugs, "Secrecy and all, right?"

Warren seems to accept his answer and goes to hassle Jesse who's still messing with the equipment. He sends the Winchesters and Castiel to take readings around the surprisingly large room. It seems to be mostly a storage room for sealed containers of hospital waste, and when he rounds a corner out of sight from Warren and Jesse, Sam catches up to him with Cas in tow.

"Dean, what the hell are we doing?"

"We need a spirit right? Well I figure the Ghost Buster wannabes probably have a good idea where to look."

Sam pulls a brand new bitchface, "I don't think that's all they're doing down here. I mean why all the paranoia, and the creepy illegit lab?"

"We're set."Jesse's voice startles them as she appears from around the corner, "Did you get the readings?"

"Yeah we got 'em," Sam answers her, though he keeps his eyes on Dean, in a well perfected this-conversation-is-so-not-over look of annoyance.

Jesse shrugs, "Whatever. Let's get this show on the road."

They follow her back to the operating table in the centre of the room, where Warren is now sitting, finishing attaching a heart monitor to himself, "The equipment's old," he explains making a few adjustments, "But it does the trick. Jesse and I have both taken successful dives and resurfaced no problem."

"Dives?" Sam asks.

Jesse snorts and flicks on the monitors, "He means we stopped our hearts, were clinically dead, and then brought each other back. It's simple and it's scientific."

"What did you see when you died?"

Everyone pauses to look at Cas, who's watching all of this with a thoughtful frown.

"I saw..." Jesse shakes her head, "Random hallucinations caused by a misfiring of the pineal gland."

Warren lies down on the table and makes himself comfortable, "Jesse's the resident sceptic. She doesn't believe in the afterlife or ghosts-"

"Or auras, or angels or the Easter Bunny," she adds dryly.

"I see," Cas mutters, evidently not liking being lumped into the same category as the Easter Bunny.

"Me on the other hand," Warren grins, "I've got bigger ideas for this lab." He nods to Jesse, "Go ahead. We'll let Carter and his assistants make some observations and his team can go second."

_Holy shit_. Beaker here's about to go and kill himself for some wacked out science experiment and Dean's not 100% he can stand here and watch that.

"Sounds good."

He turns to give Sam an _are you out of your mind_ look but his brother has the ritual out in one hand already and shrugs.

Jesse has a syringe ready and Warren's looking way to calm for a guy about to die. Dean wracks his brain for something they've done that's more unethical on a hunt lately. Not much comes to mind.

Jesse injects the contents of the syringe into Warren's arm and they watch as he goes under and the monitor slows to a flatline. As soon as the tone goes flat, Sam practically leaps into action casting a quick circle and Dean pulls Jesse out of his brother's way, as Sam starts the incantation.

'What the hell?" she breaks away from Dean angrily and manages to get to Sam to shove him aside before Cas can intervene.

'Wait Jesse-"

She rounds on Sam furiously, "Shut up! I don't know who you freaks are, but I've got to bring him back before it's too late. And then the rest of you are going to get the hell out of here!"

She grabs the paddles close at hand and shocks Warren back. There's some confusion in the next few minutes as Warren rejoins the land of the living to Jesse growling about his stupidity and the cultist freaks that roam the internet, and Sam trying to calmly lie his way into some kind of sane sounding explanation, and Dean trying to keep his little brother from being knocked flat on his ass by a girl.

'What did you see?"

The question from Cas to Warren startles everyone into dumb silence for a second.

"What do you-" Jesse starts in, but Cas pushes on.

"An old man? Wearing a suit?"

Warren actually does a pretty good imitation of a fish at that moment, and the arguing dies off.

Cas' eyes flicker from the circle on the floor to Warren's eyes. As an angel with all of heaven behind him Cas always had a wicked million mile stare. Now it's all Cas, but the stare still goes on infinitely piercing and Warren nods slowly.

"Yeah it was an old guy wearing this faded old black suit. He looked about a hundred years old... How did you...How did you know that?..."

"A reaper."

Dean realizes that's more for his and Sam's benefit.

"'Cause we've dealt with them before," he tells the stunned med student.

"You mean...you mean in other near death experiences?" Warren asks.

"Something like that, "Sam offers.

"Are they like ghosts?"

Warren's surprise is giving way to curiosity as he gets excited about something new and supernatural he might be able to study.

"No," Cas spares Jesse a brief glance as she glares unimpressed daggers at him, "They're the messengers of Death. They ferry newly deceased souls."

'And they look like old geezers?" she mutters doubtfully.

'Yes."

"And you were doing what?" Jesse scuffs at the chalk circle scornfully with the toe of her shoe, "Casting a spell to make one appear?"

Cas watches her smear the chalk, "We were trying to trap one to talk to it so we could-"

"Study it," Dean cuts in.

Cas still doesn't quite have the hang of the whole lying thing. The angel like to get to the point and doesn't seem to get the fact that normal people aren't going to just jump on board and lend a hand if they start going on about heaven and hell and the impending apocalypse.

'And did it work?" Warren asks excitedly.

"Jesus, Warren," Jesse groans.

"No," Sam shakes his head, "I didn't get to finish the ritual."

"Because _General Hospital_ here cut him off."

Jesse gives Dean the finger.

"We should try again," Warren tells them, excitedly, "Of course I can't do it a second time safely, but Jesse-"

"Like hell I'm going to do it with these Enya-loving new age pseudo scientist freaks in the room."

Dean's starting to miss the good old days now too when Cas could have sent the blond for an angel nap and shut her up.

"I'll do it."

Everyone looks as Cas who shrugs, "It wouldn't be the first time."

_Thanks for reading! Reviews feed the muse. Writing this chapter reminded me how much I really should get back to this fic!_

_~Amazon_


	4. Alleluia

_Here we are again. Despite real life demanding a lot more of my brain space these days, I've managed to churn out another chapter, and quite enjoyed it too!_

_Disclaimers:_

_The day where I actually own any of these Winchesters or the angel is as likely as world peace, a cure for all disease, and a pita that doesn't fall apart and drip on me as I eat it are achieved in the same day. Good thing pitas and Castiel are still delicious._

_I repeat what I've already said about me not having legit medical knowledge. I know nothing. May it be an entertaining lack of knowledge!_

_And now to the (hopefully) good stuff..._

**ALLELUIA**

In an ideal world, there would actually be a minute to think this through. In the real world, the not-so fortunate version in which they actually exist, where Satan's been let out of the cage, where the angelic choir is a chorus of soulless sons of bitches, and the clock's ticking a little faster on the apocalypse every day, in this version of reality, Cas and Dean are having a furtive argument about whether or not Castiel has the right to stop his suddenly very human heart, and Sam's wondering how the hell they got themselves into this. Somewhere, Crowley's probably kicking back with a glass of scotch and enjoying this.

"What the hell's the matter with you, Cas?" Dean shakes his head, "Didn't we just go through this song and dance of you almost taking the big final dirt nap, with Pestilence?"

Sam watches as Castiel lets that run through his Dean-to-Angel dictionary, and then frowns, "This is different."

"You can't be serious-"

Sam glances across the room to where Jesse and Warren are making notes and fiddling with some equipment, and not doing much better than them at pretending not to be having an argument. Jesse looks thoroughly pissed off about the..._What did she call them?...Pseudo scientist freaks?_ ... she's taken him and Dean and Cas for. Although, if she knew the actual truth of the matter, Sam doubts she'd feel much more friendly towards them.

"Dean," Castiel cuts his brother off, "We need to find a reaper. This is how we do it."

"Well, then at least let me do it."

"What?"

Dean turns to him, "What's the worst that can happen, Sam? I mean if this thing gets screwed up, then Michael and his fan club respawn me and we go gank Crowley's limey ass, first chance we get."

"Yeah, it's just that simple." Sam growls.

"Actually, it isn't."

Castiel is obviously still struggling with the whole sarcasm thing.

"Even if this...Warren...manages to perform the procedure correctly, you'll be putting yourself on the border between life and death."

"Yeah, and-"

Cas interrupts exasperatedly, "_Yes and _you'll be completely vulnerable to Zachariah or any other angel just happening to be paying attention. Dean, you'd be, even if briefly, on well known and patrolled territory of The Host. They'll be able to detect you on the border between life and Heaven, and you'd be powerless."

"Right, 'cause it's so much safer for them to catch up with _you _there."

"It would be."

His brother and the former angel glare at each other in one of those freakishly intense staring contests, that make Sam feel distinctly uncomfortable.

"I'm just going to put this out there...maybe no one should be stopping their own heart..."

Dean ignores him, "I should be the one to do this."

"No." Castiel insists, "Dean, I know the territory better and I can evade detection by The Host longer; long enough to get a reaper trapped."

"Even without your mojo?" Sam asks, trying to get in to this insane argument somewhere.

Castiel breaks eye contact with Dean, "Yes."

"You guys ready?"

Warren's done prepping the equipment, and a sullen Jesse stands at his side, still not obviously pleased, but not going out of her way to oppose him at this point.

"Yeah," Dean answers finally. Then to Cas: "I just hope you're right about this."

Castiel approaches the table and makes himself comfortable (well, as comfortable as the former angel ever looks in his human skin) as Warren attaches the leads and monitors. Jesse practices her arsenal of dirty looks on both him and Dean as they get the chalk circle re-drawn and Sam stands ready with the ritual in hand. Castiel lies back and Jesse grudgingly gets the injection prepared.

"Ready?" Warren asks excitedly, EMF detector at the ready.

"Yeah," Sam nods, "We're set."

"Yeah all set," Dean mutters.

Cas watches Jesse, blue gaze steady as ever, as she injects the syringe into his arm. The former angel's eyes gradually drop closed, his breathing slowing, until the heart monitor flat lines.

"Sam, start it!"

He starts to intone, as Warren stands clutching the EMF detector and Dean stands guard over Castiel. Sam gets to the last line and nothing happens. There's no outward sign that the ritual's worked.

"You sure you read it right?"

"Yeah, Dean...I'm sure."

Everything's silent and they all know the seconds are ticking by before they have to bring Castiel back before it's too late. Then suddenly the lights overhead flicker then spark. The EMF detectors explode, and a figure wavers into existence in the centre of the casting circle as if emerging through a haze of smoke. The funeral home suit, and the milky, wrinkled skin leave no doubt: they've bagged themselves a reaper. Jesse looks like her jaw is trying to get friendly with the floor, and Warren's eyes are shining with amazement. The reaper looks blankly around the room, until its eyes fall on Castiel.

"Bring him back." Now!" Dean barks at Jesse urgently.

She doesn't move at first and Dean practically shoves the paddles into her shaking hands.

Sam kicks into action and starts on the second half of the ritual. As Jesse finally sets in on Cas's still form, the reaper gradually draws its attention toward Sam as if it's being drawn painstakingly by an invisible cord, until it stands with its back to the flurry of activity, fully facing Sam. Warren steps unconsciously toward the reaper and Sam has to interrupt the ritual to yell at him to keep out of the circle. Those couple of seconds are enough to let the reaper's rapt attention drift back to Castiel who has yet to surface from the brink.

"Come on Cas, damn it!" Dean curses, seeing the reaper refocused on the former angel.

Sam blurts out the last of the ritual in a rush and several things happen at once: the reaper crumples to the floor, Warren jumps back in surprise and alarm and Castiel jolts back to life.

With Jesse and Dean taking care of Cas, he turns his attention back to the reaper. With incredible slowness, it gets to its knees. It pauses and studies its hands, and gradually, as if its facial muscles are stiff from lack of use , its brow furrows and its thin lips turn down in a frown. Sam waits silently. It's contained (hopefully) within the ritual circle for now. Finally it looks up at him.

"You've released me from my bound duty. Why did you do this?"

The voice is thin and wispy, like wind rattling through reeds.

"We need your help. There's a question we need answered," Sam tells it carefully.

The reaper's chalky eyes track around the room, taking in all of its occupants, "What sort of question?"

"Where is Death?"

"What?" Warren looks from Sam to the reaper and freezes when the cold gaze swivels in his direction.

"Do you know the answer to that?" Sam persists.

The reaper's eyebrows rise, " I do. He-"

Whatever the answer would have been is cut off by the lights shutting off abruptly and plunging the basement into darkness. There's a good degree of fumbling and cursing, until suddenly, a nearly blinding light illuminates the room and at the centre of it, two women in suits stand with silver blades. The light that seems to emanate from them casts the shadow of their wings across the walls. _Angels! Oh shit, oh shit..._

They walk in unison, deliberately towards the trapped reaper.

"Wait what-"

Warren is put down with a tap to the forehead from one of the angels , but it buys Sam just enough time to lunge forward and break the circle so that the reaper is able to step out of the way of the arc of an angelic sword. A second one though, catches him behind the shoulder, and the reaper goes down. They're about to deliver twin killing blows, when suddenly a blinding flash sears Sam's vision and then everything's swallowed in darkness again. He hears Jesse give a sob of fear, and then the flicker of a lighter brings his brother's face into view.

Dean holds up one bloodied hand, "Good old angel-be-gone."

A flashlight goes on, framing Jesse's face. The med student's eyes are wider than dinner plates, "What...what the hell was that?"

"Angels." Dean answers matter-of-factly, binding his hand.

The flashlight's beam finds the reaper lying on its side on the concrete floor.

"Shit," Dean swears, "It still...alive?"

As if in answer, the reaper rolls over onto its back. It makes dry choking sounds as if trying to speak, and Sam moves closer cautiously.

"...Detroit..."

It's the only word it manages to get out before a crackling sound like dry leaves going up in a campfire seems to come from its wounded shoulder and it crumbles in front of their eyes.

"Ashes to ashes," Sam mutters.

"We need to get the hell out of here."

Dean's got one of Castiel's arms draped across his shoulders and is pulling the former angel up from the table, without much help seeming to come from him.

"Cas?" Sam asks uncertainly.

He barely catches the whispered, "'fine."

"Wait, wait!" Jesse grabs Dean's elbow frantically, "You can't just leave me here!"

"Sam! A little help?" Dean calls, as he's dragged by Castiel's sagging weight in one direction and by Jesse's frantic grasp in the other.

"Jesse," he tries to sound as calm as he can, detaching the woman from Dean's arm, "Just stay here with Warren-"

"But he's dead!" she sobs, "That thing killed him..."

"No it didn't." He tries to sound as calm as he can knowing angels are now breathing down their necks, "He's just unconscious; trust me. You'll be safer if you stay here. They're after us."

They manage to convince her to stay put and get an extra flashlight to make their way out of the morgue, Cas stumbling between him and Dean. The light comes especially in handy, when they find it's not just the morgue, but the whole basement that's blacked out. When they reach the staircase, they find a pair of doctors blocking their way. The men's eyes flicker to black, and Dean groans.

"Oh that's just friggin' great."

From his position half-slumped on Dean's shoulder Cas mutters something in Latin that's either part of an exorcism, or an insult, and the demons snarl in response, and start to advance. Things aren't exactly looking up, when suddenly the demons stop in their tracks, at the sight of something behind the hunters and the former angel. Almost afraid to look, considering their luck today, Sam peers over his should erinto the semi-darkness and sees a man and a woman in neatly pressed suits. More angels.

He and Dean manage a quick side shuffle with Cas in tow and the forces of heaven and hell seem content to ignore them long enough to go at each other's throats. It has the advantage of clearing the way though and they bolt up the staircase. They find the rest of the hospital in chaos. Some kind of evacuation's obviously been called and there are doctors and nurses, patients and families running everywhere. It seems like almost every hallway's choked with people. And then there are more demons, an old woman and three orderlies coming at them from one of the rooms.

"Over here!"

Sam looks in the direction of the voice and sees a boy about ten years old holding open the doors of an elevator crammed with people. But there's just enough room for them, and he and Dean and Castiel manage to dive into the cramped space and the doors shut before the demons reach them.

'We're going up to the helipad," a woman in a hospital gown cradling a newborn tells him.

The boy who saved their collective asses calmly watches the numbers ascend as they travel up to the roof.

"Thanks," Sam tells him, smiling down at the kid.

The boy nods dismissively and his eyes travel to Castiel, lingering for a second on the former angel who Dean's managed to prop against the wall of the elevator. Cas has his eyes closed and looks about ready to drop despite the combined support of Dean and the wall. Before Sam can say anything else the elevator dings pleasantly and the doors open. Everyone scrambles out and a man dressed in pilot gear rushes to meet them, trying to get some kind of order established. Sam feels an urgent tug on his sleeve and looks down to see the little boy looking frantic.

"Quick! Quick!" the kid urges, "Get back in the elevator!"

"What-" Sam starts, but then notices the five men in suits approaching them in perfect lockstep from the other side of the helipad.

"Go, go!" the kid practically shoves him and he and Dean stumble back into the elevator with Castiel between them.

Dean closes the doors and hits the lobby button."Okay what the hell? Who was that kid?"

"I don't know...'

"Jesus Sam," Dean swears, "We've already got angels and demons on our asses like white on rice, we don't need some supernatural Mickey Mouse club stalking us to round things out."

"Maybe if you were a tad more subtle about things, you wouldn't have that problem."

A third voice startles them and suddenly, Crowley's there standing in the elevator drinking a martini.

"There I am, enjoying an impeccable filet mignon, when I hear through the cosmic grapevine, that the Winchesters have entirely screwed up the very simple errand they were supposedly on."

Before any response or death threats, or stabbings with the demon killing knife can be given, Sam blinks and the four of them are standing in Bobby's living room. Well, all except for Cas, who isn't so much standing as lying in a heap where Dean's accidentally dropped him in the sudden zap.

Thanks for reading! I know I'm being kind of inconsistent in writing this one, but I do hope to find a way to write it more often, and in the mean time...Reviews feed the muse!

~Amazon


	5. Dies Irae

_Wow. It's been a looong time since I updated. Hopefully absence makes the heart grow fonder._

_Disclaimer: I make insane profit from these fics and love copyright infringement of every kind. I am also a seven foot tall bodybuilder from Uzbekistan who own 17 lamas and has 33 wives. (In case it wasn't obvious, not a word of that is true) _

DIES IRAE

Some see a tunnel, others a river, a highway, a cobblestone street, or a trail in the forest. The path that must be travelled towards the inevitable light, towards the afterlife, the soul's road stretches out at death and the spirit is drawn inexorably toward its destination.

The road before Castiel is dusty, winding off into a horizon wavering and blurred by the heat. It isn't uncomfortable; he is merely aware that where he is, is hot and dry; desert most likely. A bright sun overhead bathes him in warmth and light and he moves easily along the path set before him. His feet are bare but the road underfoot is smooth enough and, though he can't see any foliage nearby, it's seemingly carpeted with palm leaves. The terrain apart from the road is desolate and flat, reaching off into vast nothingness, becoming indistinct on the horizon, portraying a deceptive emptiness. But he knows they're coming. His brethren won't be ignorant to his presence for long.

Two more suns blaze into being in the sky above, sudden and scalding, not like the original, and Castiel knows his brothers have come for him. He stands his ground for a moment, watching them streak closer, knowing that if he were looking with true physical eyes right now, he'd be blinded at the very least.

_CASTIEL._

The collective voice of The Host booms in his psyche.

There's no time to waste. In moments they'll descend upon him and destroy him or very possibly worse, capture him and bring him before the assembled Host and then subject him to interrogation in Heaven's prison. A shudder ripples through his soul. He's been there before and a repeat doesn't feature high on his list of things to do.

The righteously blazing angels are screaming closer still and time is up, and now he can only hope that without his grace, he'll still be able to avoid them long enough for Sam and Dean to catch the reaper and bring him back to the mortal plane.

He drops swiftly to one knee and lays a palm on the earth below him. If he concentrates, even without his grace, he is more like his true form here. He might be able to find his wings... Not having felt them in weeks, not having felt like he has been his true self in so long, he prays that in this place, when he needs it most he will.

The earth (though it isn't earth not really, just a projection of his own psyche being glued together by the energy that lingers on the borders of the afterlife, dissolves suddenly at his touch and he plunges down into _water_. The cold, salty ocean swallows him whole and he sinks a few stunned feet before he remembers his limbs and gives himself a crash course in swimming. The unreality of his limbs and lungs is momentarily forgotten as the fear of drowning, of death that he's only begun to understand since losing his grace, envelops him. There is burning in his muscles, in his chest, but he determinedly gets himself turned around and kicks his legs. He can regain control. He can. He tries to remind himself of this fact, difficult as it is without time, space, a clear mind... He needs to put some distance between himself and his pursuers.

The sunlight breaking the surface of the waves overhead is extinguished suddenly, and Castiel is pitched into profound darkness. The only way left to him is down, and he kicks and fights his way deeper blindly. His brothers hit the water like comets, casting a blinding flair of brilliance around them. He feels his chest constrict with terror, and the lack of air he can't seem to convince himself he doesn't need, but he screws his eyes shut and pushes on more frantically. A grip like iron clamps around his ankle and he feels bones that shouldn't actually be there grind and shatter. A scream provides him with a lungful of water and he can't stop the instinctual panic that engulfs him. His struggles are weakening... He feels more hands close on him... vicelike and unrelenting, dragging him against his will...He can't breathe...can't fight...consciousness is slipping...from his grasp...

Castiel coughs up briny water and the motion flares crippling pain through him. Lying on his back on dry land again, back on the recombined dry, dusty road, his chest is burning aching, demanding he get more air, not caring in the least that this world is supposed to be insubstantial and void of the need for physical necessities like breathing... Worse though, is the new pain ripping him apart from the vicinity of his shoulders, where's he's pinned like a butterfly in a glass case, immobilized by the points of two angelic swords crucifying him to the earth. He coughs water and blood that shouldn't come from an ethereal being.

_Breathe. Breathe_, he orders himself.

"You shouldn't have come back, Castiel."

Through the pain, he squints up at the figure beside him, half obscured by the sun sitting directly over her shoulder.

"Morael..."

He recognizes one of his sisters sitting cross-legged on the dusty path, presumably keeping guard over him.

"You knew the consequences. Why come back?" She asks.

Her chosen form is that of a woman in her mid sixties; her voice soft, grey eyes calm and gently inquisitive as if she isn't seeking the answer to her question from a being cruelly impaled and half-drowned.

"Where are the others?" He rasps, ignoring the question, when he regains his voice at last.

Morael frowns and shifts her position so that she blocks the sun glaring in his eyes, "Gone to get Zachariah."

Castiel grits his teeth, "Let me go."

"I'm sorry; I can't." Morael smiles sadly adding after a moment, "Even though It's painful seeing you this way."

"Well, I'm sorry for causing _you _any pain," he bites out, trying not to move his body in any way shape or form that'll cause him further agony.

The celebration of his discovery of sarcasm will have to wait.

Morael sighs eloquently, "You could just tell me why you're here... Wouldn't you prefer that to waiting for someone more _persuasive_ to ask the questions?"

He glares silently up at her, though winces as the bright sun gets in his eyes again as she shifts her position.

His sister absently waves a hand and the light dims to a cool, dusky blue.

"I just want to give you a chance to come clean, brother."

Castiel feels himself shiver, the motion sending scalding tendrils of pain through his body. With the sun gone, it's much colder. It shouldn't be. He shouldn't be bound to these physical limitations but even his powers are no match for his brothers who still have their grace intact, no match for Morael.

She reaches toward him and an image of his sister grabbing hold of the two swords impaling him and grinding them further into his body flashes through his mind, but the torture he's expecting isn't what comes. Her hand lights on his brow and for the briefest of moments all of the pain vanishes and he feels bathed in the comfort of The Host again.

"Please, Castiel," she coaxes, "Don't make this harder on yourself."

He gasps as he feels the swell of belonging, of the peaceful surety of his family wash through him, and it takes every fibre of his being to resist.

"Castiel..."

He shuts his eyes trying to shut her out, trying desperately to shut out the one feeling he's been longing for for months that have felt like an eternity.

"I'm not your enemy," Morael murmurs, "Please..."

"No..." his voice sounds thin, lacking conviction in his own ears.

"Castiel..."

"Please..." he breathes, echoing her earlier plea.

He can't endure this.

And then suddenly, there's a great ripping sensation and Morael, and the desert and the liminal environment are torn away like water circling too quickly down a drain, and Castiel gasps his first legitimate breath back on the mortal plane. He's back in the basement of the hospital and Dean is leaning over him looking relieved. The woman, Jesse, checks his vitals and injects him with something, but her attention is almost fully on the reaper that Sam has trapped in the centre of the room.

They've succeeded.

All of a sudden, the room goes pitch black, and then just as suddenly is filled with searing light. Morael and another of his sisters step out from the place in his vision that is still swarming with sunspots. They deal with Warren who stands in their way almost as an afterthought and go immediately for the reaper. Morael catches the reaper with a sweeping arc of her blade and the angels tower over the fallen creature, prepared to extinguish it, when another bright flash goes off and the room falls into darkness again. A banishing sigil.

"Cas?"

Sam's voice.

"Fine," he manages to lie.

Things are sliding inconveniently in and out of focus and Castiel swears he can still feel the swords pinning him to the earth still somewhere back on Heaven's borders, even as Dean hauls him off of the table and the brothers half drag half carry him out of the morgue. It feels like his wings...no ...his shoulders..._His wings?_...He doesn't know... Something is separating and tearing. Something besides his human body sustained damage in his foray into the afterlife...

Demons are upon them so suddenly, he almost reaches out with his hand to exorcize them, only remembering at the last second that he can't and the beginnings of an exorcism trip off his tongue. Then he feels the presence of more angels and he tries to turn to face them too but is too weak and the Winchesters drag him up a staircase.

More demons and they run again. Well, Sam and Dean run, Castiel can't quite fathom how he's still moving along with the hunters. Then, a small space, lots of scared people. There is too much; too many angels, demons, humans; too much noise, panic, pain... He loses his grip on consciousness and plunges gratefully into a void.

_Pain ripping him apart ...crucifying him to the earth... Breathe. Breathe... _

"_Morael..."_

"_Please Castiel," she coaxes, "Don't make this harder on yourself."_

_He gasps as he feels the swell of belonging, of the peaceful surety of his family wash through him, and it takes every fibre of his being to resist. _

"_I'm not your enemy," Morael murmurs, "Please-"_

Rays of sunlight. Faint voices.

Castiel jolts awake heart hammering. He'll never get used to dreaming. His eyes travel up faded walls to a dusty light fixture hanging above the bed he is lying on; Bobby's. He exhales slowly and pushes himself gingerly to a sitting position and rubs stiff muscles. There is a vague ache everywhere in his body, possibly a symptom of having died not too long ago, and a faint burning phantom pain still persists where the angelic blades struck him on Heaven's border. He scrubs a hand across his face, and back through his hair. Stiffly, he swings his legs over the side of the bed and spots his trench coat, jacket, tie and shoes tossed on a nearby dresser along with a more neatly folded pair of jeans and a dark long sleeve t-shirt . His dress shirt and pants which he's still wearing are rumpled and unpleasantly drenched in a cold sweat and he picks up the new clothes. The jeans are a little baggy but he finds they fit. There's a mirror mounted on the dresser, and he pauses once he has his shirt off, leaning in towards the image of himself in the glass. Examining the reflection of his chest and shoulders, he rubs at the soreness he can still feel there. But the blades have left no discernable mark, no matter how much it feels like there should be something there.

"Back from the dead huh?"

In the reflection of the mirror he sees Dean standing in the doorway, leaning on the frame.

"Yes."Castiel drops his hand and reaches for the shirt, 'What did the reaper say?"

"Detroit."

His eyes meet Dean's in the mirror, "Detroit?"

The hunter folds his arms, "Yeah, he was awesomely helpful; should be real easy to track down a horseman hiding in a city of almost a million people."

"Sarcasm?"

"Yeah."

"Hm." Castiel pulls the new shirt over his head and turns to face his charge, "Maybe there's a way to locate Death now that we have a better idea where to begin the search."

Dean frowns, "Yeah, well about that..."

That's when Castiel notices that their conversation isn't going unobserved.

"Crowley."

The demon smiles, taking him in in a less than virtuous way, "Look at you all bright eyed and bushy tailed."

"What's Crowley doing here?" he asks Dean warily.

"_Crowley_," the demon cuts in, "Is the reason you're not all various messy stains on the floor right now. I was enjoying a very expensive steak at _La __Queue__de__Cheval_ when I got word through the grapevine that you three were failing miserably at the very simple task I'd set you on, and that in fact, both angels and demons had you by the short and curlies. I figured the only choice left was to airlift your collective ineptitude out of the situation before it got any worse."

Castiel looks to Dean for confirmation, and the hunter glares at Crowley, "Our knight in shining armour."

"Sarcasm," Castiel informs the too-smug demon.

The mood around Bobby's kitchen table is understandably tense. The hunters are sitting across from a demon who's given them faulty and quite frankly false information before, the angel across from a creature the very anathema of his existence.

Sam offers Crowley what Castiel has heard Dean refer to as a "bitch-face," "The answer is no."

The demon takes a drink of scotch (one he's had to conjure himself since Bobby Singer refused to share any of his own stock with the likes of Crowley)." Is it? Detroit's not exactly a small city. But of course you must know that," he swirls the glass in his hand absently, "You must be aware of the fact that you're talking about one hundred and forty three square miles, and nine hundred and ten thousand nine hundred and twenty three residents. Unless..." Crowley fakes sudden concern, "Unless the reaper meant _Metro Detroit, _the six county area with a population of five million three hundred and twenty seven thousand seven hundred and sixty four...give or take."

"Listen, Wikipedia," Dean glowers, "decision made. We don't want your version of help."

Crowley sits for a moment, gaze travelling from Dean, to Bobby, to Sam and finally lingering on Castiel, long enough to make the angel feel distinctly uncomfortable, "I don't think you're seeing the big picture here. No one in this room wants Lucifer to come to power. None of us want the horseman to ride in and secure that power for him. You have the rings, I have the means to find the final horseman, and as much as we might find the idea repugnant, no one less than me, we do in essence need each other."

There's a silence and then Bobby speaks up, "He's got a point."

"Bobby..." Sam looks genuinely horrified.

"As I said, it wouldn't be permanent," Crowley reasons, "Whichever of you lends your precious soul to me gets it back untarnished at the end of the day, and I get enough power to track down Death quick as you like, you get to relieve him of his ring, Fanny's your aunt Bob's your uncle."

"No," Dean growls, "No friggin' way."

"Doesn't have to be you, Dean.." Crowley takes another sip of scotch and Castiel frowns as the demon looks sidelong at him.

"**No**."

The answer is intended for Crowley, but Dean delivers it fiercely in Castiel's direction. The hunter shouldn't have worried though. There are some lines Castiel knows he will not cross, even for The Winchesters.

"The answer is no," he confirms, fingers itching yet again for the power to blot the demon out of existence.

Crowley shakes his head and finishes his scotch, "I know you humans and you-" he looks at Castiel and smiles sweetly, "_Humans _can get a bit clingy when it comes to your souls, but think about it. I'll come back in one hour and we can see if any of you have found your higher thinking functions."

Castiel is taken aback by how sudden Crowley's exit appears. He still can't get used to perceiving things like that with only his clumsy human senses. It's as if the demon's just vanished.

All eyes are on Bobby, but Dean is the first to break the silence, "Just to be clear on this, we wouldn't trust Crowley with a deck of cards; so souls aren't on the table... Right?"

"There's gotta be another way to track down The Horseman in Detroit," Sam adds.

"Maybe," Bobby shrugs, "But we're on one hell of a ticking clock. Lucifer's got some kind of big demon-ritual ho-down planned, and unless we figure out where Death is before that, there might not be another chance to get that ring."

Dean frowns," So we hit the books we-"

"Books've been hit, Dean," Bobby cuts in, "There's nothing, no spell, no voodoo I've got access to that can track down the horseman. If he doesn't want to be found, we won't find him. We just don't have the power to work that kind of spell. Crowley does."

"Only if we give him a soul," Sam reminds them.

"Which we aren't gonna do," Dean growls.

"Crowley can't be trusted," Castiel agrees, the only thing he's currently sure of.

What their alternative course of action should be, or why his missing wings are radiating phantom pain still, he has no idea, but that Crowley will inevitably betray them for his own gain, is written into the demon's very essence; he's sure of it.

Bobby looks thoughtful, "Maybe...there's a way to put a guarantee on Crowley being true to his word."

"You can't be serious," Dean mutters.

"Dean..." Sam shoots his brother an annoyed look, "What are you thinking Bobby?"

"I was reading something... some ancient Sumerian texts, back when I was lookin' for a way to get Dean out of his deal with the crossroads demon."

Castiel notices the way the young hunter shifts uncomfortably at the mention of it, but Sam presses on.

"And?"

"And it didn't do much good at the time, seein' as we were looking to break a contract not seal one, but there might be a way to plug any possible loopholes Crowley might be thinking up. I'll have to go back to it and read some more of the fine print, but it's worth a shot."

Sam looks at his brother .

"Absolutely friggin' not, Sam!" He looks at Bobby and Castiel and shakes his head, "Am I the only one here who remembers how well our last couple deals with demons went? Even if-"

'Dean-" Sam tries to cut in, but Deal glares him down.

"**Even if** we make this contract airtight, whose soul are you suggesting we sell? Mine? Bobby's? Cas? There's no way in hell I'm letting him near yours either Sam so don't even think it!"

"Technically it's not a sale it's a loan," Sam shoots back.

"The answer is no," Dean seethes, "we'll find another way."

He gets up abruptly from the table.

"Where do you think you're going?" Bobby demands.

"Out back." Dean clips, "I'm going to call Alexandra's coven."

'We already tried that," Sam reminds him.

But his older brother ignores him and storms out the back door.

"Dean!"

Bobby sighs and pours himself some more whiskey, "Let 'im go, Sam. He needs a minute to cool off and get his head back on straight. In the meantime," he sifts through the pile of books on the table and finds four faded blue volumes, "my Sumerian's rustier than the Titanic, so I'd suggest you help me go through these."

Forty minutes later, Castiel is halfway through the earmarked pages in one of the volumes. The process is laborious. His memory isn't as pristine as it once was. Like many of his senses, his memory is becoming clouded. The day to day, and even the last hundred years or so remain fresh enough, but anything much past that, is growing more elusive since the loss of his grace, and he hasn't spoken or read Sumerian in at least a few thousand years. He could still out-do most Professors of ancient languages, in his comprehension, but it's still a far cry from his flawless and supernaturally fast skills when it came to absorbing texts before Pestilence, before his fall...

"You Okay?"

Sam's hand on his arm startles him, and he realizes he's been staring at the same word on the page for nearly five minutes.

"Yes," he mutters embarrassed, "I'm fine."

He tracks Sam's gaze to his left hand which is absently rubbing at his collarbone, trying to distract from the ache that instead of abating, is seeping over his shoulder blades, into his chest.

"You sure?"

Bobby looks up from his reading to frown at them.

"Yes, I... I think I need some air."

Sam lets him go with another worried look and Bobby returns to the text in front of him.

Outside, the autumn sunlight is bright, glinting off of the broken down vehicles loitering in Bobby Singer's yard, and the wind pushes lazily at soft white clouds overhead. It's a beautiful season of fiery leaf crowns for the nearby trees, and startlingly blue skies, permeated by a faint smoky but simultaneously crisp smell. The beauty of the earth is one of the things Castiel has always hung onto as a sign of God's love for humanity. It has always seemed like the essence of a brilliant painter caught in The Divine Will; the kindly father who creates a world of beauty for his children, renewing the seasons over and over again, no matter what. But with all of this and so much more perched on the edge of destruction, with so much darkness poisoning the very veins of Heaven and Earth, Castiel is beginning to wonder if it isn't perhaps cruelty that makes the world continue to be deceptively beautiful; a sweet odour to cover the stench of blood and decay.

His shoulders and his chest are aching fiercely again, and he breathes in the cold, fresh air, trying to soothe the tight throbbing. There isn't much to be done about it besides ignoring it though for the time being. The injury isn't physical and no bandages, icepacks, painkillers, or any other manner of thing the Winchesters have taught him to use for hunting injuries so far is likely to do any good; not even whiskey, which Dean usually swears by. The aforementioned hunter is nowhere to be seen out here, and Castiel frowns. The wisdom in any of them wandering off alone, even on familiar ground like this is becoming more and more dubious. Michael and Lucifer are eager to have their vessels and they are all in danger of becoming pawns in any number of games being played between the two.

A faint movement from behind a nearby pile of tires catches Castiel's eye and he pauses, craning his limited human hearing. _Demons?_ It could equally be a squirrel for all the good his primitive senses are doing him now. He reaches instinctively for his blade before remembering that he isn't carrying it. Another flash of movement. Not good. He could make a run for the house, which at least is warded, but Dean is still presumably out here somewhere and he can't exactly leave the hunter out here alone, unaware of the possible danger; not to mention the fact that his musings have taken him failry far from Bobby Singer's house. There's a rusty, discarded crowbar lying on a scrap pile near him and he picks it up, still a soldier, still aware of the value of having a weapon, even a potentially ineffectual one, as he cautiously rounds the stack of tires.

A squirrel. It in fact a squirrel he discovers, A squirrelthat had his heart racing, a squirrel that he nearly bashed with a crowbar. Castiel: smiter of squirrels. How humiliating. He is about to drop his makeshift weapon, when he hears the unmistakable sound of slow, deliberate applause. He turns around to find Crowley standing behind him, smirking.

"Oh please, don't let me interrupt. I believe you were about to teach Skippy there a valuable lesson."

"What are you doing here?" Castiel demands, not quite ready to drop the crowbar.

The demon shrugs and folds his arms, "Just here for a friendly chat."

"You and I are not friends."

"Cas," Crowley scoffs, "you can drop the holier than thou act. You're not exactly a card-carrying member of the heavenly choir anymore, and your pet hunters aren't here to impress at the moment. The kids aren't here, so let's talk just us adults. You and I have been around the block so-to-speak more than a few millennia. We both understand the colossal implications for both of us if the forecasted apocalypse does in fact happen. So I'm making you the same offer I just made in there at the kids table: One soul, on loan; I find the horseman, we avert the apocalypse. You get your soul back in mint condition. It's a limited time offer though. So, what do you say?"

Castiel briefly considers trying to brain Crowley with the crowbar on principle for thinking he'd be interested in a backroom deal for his soul, but ultimately decides not to waste his time, " I already told you: I'm not interested," he informs the demon, dropping the rusty piece of metal and turning to head back to Bobby's.

"I did have a feeling you'd say that," Crowley sighs dramatically. "Alright, he's all yours."

Castiel whips around in time to see six demons materialize, headed by Meg, as Crowley vanishes.

"Hi there Clarence," Meg grins broadly, "Just the boy I was looking for."

Just how much he took his angelic strength for granted becomes apparent to him, as Castiel attempts to fight off six well muscled demons with nothing but his combat expertise and Jimmy's not so imposing frame. He lands a few solid strikes but takes twice as many, feeling his nose and ribs crack in ways that are in no way pleasant. He does manage to take down one of his attackers, but the other five are more than ready to rush into the opening and pummel him until he's lying on the gravel, barely hanging on to consciousness.

"Ok, ok, fun's over boys let's grab our prize and go."

Everything lurches sickeningly as he's hoisted over the broad shoulder of one of the demons in an ungraceful fireman's carry.

"Hey, assface!"

There's the echo of a gunshot and an impact that sends Castiel pitching back onto the gravel as the demon handling him like a sack of fertilizer seconds ago, drops as a bullet from the colt slams into the unlucky demon.

_Dean. _

There are some other words exchanged between Meg and Dean, with a liberal application of "bitch"s and "demonic bitch"s contributed by Dean and Castiel deeply wishes the hunter would just shoot her and be done with it, but then he's being used as a human shield by Meg and the other demons are rushing Dean, and Sam and Bobby are joining the fray too little too late, and before he can so much as make his vision focus enough to try for his own get-away, everything shifts sickeningly, and the salvage yard slides away.

...

_Thanks for reading. If you liked what you read, you're more than welcome to review Here's hoping we get a little more Castiel action on Supernatural sooner rather than later, because Castiel being dead is absolutely too depressing in such hard economic times..._


	6. Offertory

_Hi all, this particular story has faced a whole blockade of writer's block, but thanks to my wonderful new job (wonderful because it gives me time to write at work) I've come back to this fic and am trying to (ironically) insert some life back into it. Not much to say apart from two notes: _

_1) the usual disclaimer, about how I make no profit from this, etc. – If I did I'd probably not be wearing clothes with holes in them... well, actually I probably still would. Priorities. _

_And_ _2) You'll probably notice that Death is pretty AU. You can blame my spotty memory, Terry Pratchett, and my own hubris for that – Or you can just enjoy my take on it._

_Without too much further ado: 'Offertory" the chapter in which Bobby makes soccer analogies, Crowley accidentally becomes an anti-smoking PSA and Death gets a monologue._

**OFFERTORY**

Well, this has all gone to hell in a hand basket real quick. If Bobby were the praying sort, this is pretty much the time he would have thought about taking a knee. Hell, he`d go down like one of those candy-ass European soccer players in the middle of a match and bitch to the ref. Team Free Will could do with a friggin` penalty kick right about now. But after fifty odd years and especially the evidence of the last year itself, he`s well aware that the game`s rigged and The Great Big Referee in the sky... He don`t give a crap.

John`s boys are sitting in the next room arguing up a storm over what the hell to do now that they`re not only facing a ticking Apocalyptic clock, but are down one former-angel and are generally up shit creek with nary a paddle in sight. Prayer may be off the table, but whiskey sure as hell ain`t. Bobby pours himself a fresh glass and puts off going back to the boys a little longer. He`s got a truly stupid notion brewing in his head and needs a second more and a little more marinade of the Jack Daniel`s variety before he decides what to do with it.

SNSNSNSNSN

Things are... less than ideal. But luckily, Crowley is the gambling type; cool under pressure. He sighs and takes another drag on his cigarette, a filthy habit, even by demon standards, but he comforts himself with the fact that a mother with four children just walked into the cafe. He smiles charmingly as he makes sure to send a good cloud of second hand smoke at the little tykes.

His hour is almost up; shame, because his favourite Parisian cafe almost let him forget that he has to go back to playing a bloody ridiculous game of cat and mouse with not only Lucifer, but the Heavenly Choirboys too, and his "allies" have proven they need a considerable kick in the arse to get anything done. Crowley finishes his espresso and snubs out his cigarette. At least the day hasn't been a total waste yet; the look in dear sweet Castiel's eyes when he realized he was being handed over to the Horseman of the Month Club was even sweeter than surprise. Highly enjoyable.

He gets ready to step leisurely back into South Dakota and see if the humans are finally feeling the appropriate sense of urgency now that their angelic counterpart has been abducted when he feels something odd: the tug of a summoning.

Well isn't _that_ interesting...

A neat little slice opens up in space and reality, and Crowley strolls through it.

"I have to admit, I wasn't expecting this..."

Bobby Singer turns suddenly at the sound of Crowley's voice just over his left shoulder. The human casts a wary glance back towards his shack and sweeps the summoning ritual quickly into a nearby pile of junk.

"Yeah, yeah, let's get this show on the road. You can gloat later."

"Me? Gloat?" Crowley approximates a look of hurt indignity.

"Here's how this is going to work," Singer informs him, "I sign over the goods, _temporarily _and you give me the _exact _location of the Horseman. Then, you give me my soul back without so much as a scratch."

Crowley puts his hands in his coat pockets and sizes up Bobby Singer. Oh yes. He's _really_ going to enjoy this. "I take it you didn't get permission from the Hardy Boys for this exchange? Or..." and he can't resist can he? Hello: demon. "Or your guardian angel..."

Singer fixes him with a look that he suspects has previously made countless lower echelon demons soil themselves, "Cas got taken."

Crowley just remembers to feign surprise, "Always was a bit bird-brained that one."

There's a long minute where Bobby glares at him, unreasonably bloody perceptive for a human, and Crowley feels a sudden rare sense of doubt in his centuries old, finely honed ability to lie. But he needn't have worried apparently, because the man breaks eye contact and looks back towards the house again, making sure they're going unobserved. Bobby Singer is a man with things other than treachery on his mind; namely self-sacrifice. And that has a brilliant ability to make an idiot of anyone.

"Well, then, perhaps we should go ahead while we have some privacy; more intimate this way," Crowley suggests pleasantly.

SNSNSNSNSNSN

If he had been conscious, perhaps he would have recognized the danger in which he currently resided, but since the insensate former angel isn't anything of the sort, he remains blissfully unaware. The cosmic speck in the trench coat gives a soft groan as his human body struggles to return him to awareness and fails. Well, perhaps not so blissfully then.

Old eyes, old in every essence of the possibility contained within that word, watch the drama before them, which is small enough to dance on the head of a pin. There are far, far bigger things at stake than this one being, even than this one or two species, this planet, this universe... But that kind of thinking has been causing what would be equated to a headache lately, and Death leans back wearily in his chair and continues to watch the human-looking celestial's plight.

Into the stately ballroom wander two more specks, infernal by nature and usually not of much consequence, but time and power have a regrettably fascinating habit of flowing and shifting. The leather of the easy chair creaks companionably, and almost as audibly, as the embodied neck of The Supreme Reaper as he turns to watch them.

"'Been enjoying your quality time?" the First Fallen Angel asks.

"Hm."

This crumb of twisted divinity, this Lucifer, has confined him to the age and frailty that Death usually shows only outwardly. It is normally only a mask, but some great upset in the rightful balance of the universe has placed The Devil in an unusual position of power and now Death's own illusion of infirmity is being used against him. He is confined to sit here like an old man in his twilight years, nodding by the fire, just barely able to keep his reapers running their all-important errands. But they all know they are doing so strictly under the thumb of the tiny-speck tyrant Lucifer.

SNSNSNSNSNSN

The pain burns white hot and is the first thing Castiel is aware of as consciousness slams back into him. The second thing he's bound to notice, once the pain stops boiling his brain like an egg, is that he's back in his familiar suit and trench coat. But in the meantime, he's being crucified again, and it feels like he's impaled by those seraphic blades straight through his shoulders. His mouth opens, but he doesn't hear his own scream, and he can't be sure he's even uttered one. When something other than fireworks manages to inhabit his vision, he's met with the sight of the demon Meg nursing a steaming hand and glaring at him. His shoulders though not actually sporting any protruding blades, are also steaming. He wonders foggily if it hurt her as much as it hurts him...

"Cas."From his position strapped to what is apparently a gurney, The Devil appears in his field of vision. "I see you got a little present courtesy of The Host."

When Lucifer lightly places a hand on the now very material wounds, they sizzle, but The Devil doesn't appear to be burned. If only the same could be said for Castiel.

"Well isn't that interesting?" Lucifer muses, withdrawing his touch, leaving his younger brother panting for breath.

The Devil watches him writhe in his bonds for a few more minutes before turning indulgently back to Meg, "Alright, alright, you've been very patient. Castiel:" he places a filial hand on the former angel's forehead, a touch that causes no physical pain, but nonetheless leaves Castiel cold inside. "It probably isn't much consolation, but I couldn't do this without you. You're my last vital ingredient for the final ritual. We may not see eye to eye little brother, but for this, for your sacrifice, you have my gratitude."

"Lucifer, whatever you're planning-"

The Devil puts a finger to his lips and Castiel feels the words freeze in his throat. Slowly, and with surprising gentleness, Lucifer tilts the former angel's chin, turning his head so that he can finally see the room's other occupant: Death.

"When this is all over, I'll have Old Man Reaper here in my arsenal and then we'll all be one step closer to the big finale; thanks to you."

Futile as it may be, Castiel immediately starts to struggle against his bonds again.

Lucifer smiles beatifically, "That's good. Keep that up."

And with that Satan turns on his heel and vanishes.

"Clarence, Clarence, Clarence," Meg singsongs crossing to the other side of the spacious, empty ballroom, "Boy, are you in for a treat tonight."

Castiel continues to strain against his bonds, observed by Death, who despite what is about to happen, looks like an old man about to drowse off.

"Uh...look," he begins a bit awkwardly, addressing the ancient power "I know I'm a lower rank- or uh..." The squeak and rattle of a metal cart being rolled towards him becomes louder. "or the lowest actually right now, considering..." he grimaces at his human body perforated with supernatural wounds, "but... listen to me! You can't let this happen!"

Meg laughs.

"Listen to me!"

And that's a considerably impertinent way to be addressing any power this old and this – well – powerful. But Castiel can feel desperation clawing his way up inside of him.

But when Death meets his eyes at last, the utter lack of movement, of energy, of will power to stop what is about to happen fills the former angel with despair.

"Feisty little tree-topper aren't you?" Meg chuckles and Castiel makes the phenomenal mistake of turning to look at the knife she has in her hands. It's long and faintly curved, covered from handle to tip in Enochian sigils.

"Don't let her do this!" he tries one last time out of sheer desperation, "It'll bind you! It'll bind you permanently to Lucifer!"

"Cas. Dear sweet little Castiel," Meg coos, wrenching his chin back so he has no choice but to look at her. "If you don't stop chit chatting with that old scythe swinger I'm going to have to gag you. Of course, that would muffle your screams of pain, and then, well what's a good ritual without a screaming victim? Uh-uh, nope. See _then_, as an alternative, I'd just have to cut your pretty little tongue out. And you don't want that do you?"

Castiel abruptly stops his useless entreaties to a universal power apparently past the point of caring and saves his tongue for entreaties to one who he can only hope isn't.

Meg sets about arranging the materials on her cart with all the open glee of a little girl setting up her favourite tea set.

"Domine, Rex Gloriae-" he whispers.

"Saying your prayers Clarence?" She asks lightly, "Go ahead. Of course if I hear any hint of a demon-be-gone in there, I'm pressing the mute button," she warns him, reaching over to lightly tap the tip of the blade against his chin.

The demon carefully begins to sharpen the knife. And Castiel swallows hard.

"Toa-...Toa tar en ev at ta..." he fumbles into Enochian.

Meg scrapes her nails down his chest, over his shirt and slides them to his belt.

Then Latin as his stomach clenches:"...Fidelium defunctorum-..."

Time. He can buy time... think of something... think of a way out of this... give The Winchesters a chance to find him to... No, but there's no hope of that. But maybe, just maybe, there's still someone in The Host worth reaching. If they could only hear his prayers, his pleas then-

He feels his pants slide down to reveal vulnerable flesh just above his right hip. His voice speeds up as fingers trace the exposed skin and Castiel squeezes his eyes shut.

"-from...from infernal punishment and the Deep pit!" he stutters. "Free them from... the mouth of the lion; do not let Tartarus swallow them...Nor let them fall into darkness...

"Daddy's not coming for you," Meg informs him cheerfully, "And I wouldn't count on any of those big scary big brothers of yours either..."

The blade sinks in, making the first deep, angled cut.

He hardly registers himself switching back to Enochian, "Piam zia ta Tirrin-poalah-!"

"That's it," the demon coos, "Sing for me..."

As the sigil burns its way into his flesh, he feels himself losing his grip on the words,"...Lead- ... lead them into... the holy light-..."

Darkness. Darkness crowds into him, filling him from the inside out, leeching like a damp penetrating cold through him. It's hopeless... no one is coming for him... His heart aches.

"Isn't this fun?" Meg giggles as she makes another deep cut.

_Father...please..._

A strange chittering, buzzing noise begins to fill Castiel's ears, and radiating out from the area Meg is carving he feels a stinging sensation like being peppered with small, sharp needles over every inch of his skin.

_No_... but God isn't listening...

"Quam olim Abrahae Promisisti! " he gasps trying to focus on the words, on the comfort of the words he knows by heart... but the wrongness of what's starting to happen is far more than just physical."...et...et seimini eius..." he persists desperately.

No one is coming. He is going to die here alone...

"Come on Cas..." Meg pouts now, "just one little scream..."

She reaches over beside her and produces a fine powder from the tray beside her and dumps it liberally in the wound.

_Sulfur._

He screams.

Everything goes blindingly white for what feels like an eternity but is probably only a few seconds. Then he is plunged again into heavy darkness.

"H- hostias... et preces tibi... " he hears his own voice shaking from seemingly a long way away... "Domine... laudis offerimus..."

He doesn't even know why he's still reciting the prayer.

"Stubborn," the demon chuckles and ruffles his hair in a mockery of affection.

He can barely breathe and it feels like a metal band has wrapped itself around his heart and is slowly squeezing.

"..alan... taq el palin... ev-...ev taama-..." the Enochian words taste coppery on his tongue. Or possibly that's blood... "re faaq. Ba hadalmah saasia."

He's so dizzy... and his chest is on fire... What comes next?... _oh... yes..._ "Fac eas Domine.." he whimpers. "Pass over... from death to life..."

A terrible explosion of pain tears through his chest and the wounds from Morael's swords sear him and everything crescendos in agony, before it abruptly stops...

The ballroom is enormous, yet every single panel and fixture is handcrafted with intricate detail. It's a beautiful room. The floor shines, polished like a mirror and the chandelier overhead casts a warm, multi-faceted light. In a worn leather chair, Death sits, drowsy and subdued, while a demon bends over the waxen pale figure of a former angel gasping his last breath. Unseen, Castiel drifts closer to the dying man, taking in his trench coat, twisted under him from his struggles... the rumpled suit... the dark hair, plastered to his temples with cold sweat... It's all very familiar... Castiel looks at Death again, who very slowly returns his gaze. The demon is unaware of his presence and keeps looking at the fading figure on the gurney; still very familiar...

Cracked lips struggle to form words with very little breath. "… io ebha taadomad…" the former angel rasps in Enochian.

Castiel leans in closer, curious. Enochian...

If he hadn't been incorporeal, his eyes would have widened as understanding dawned.

_Oh no._

"Aliliq as mon raed..." the dying figure gasps.

_No._ It's him. That's him. That's his very human body dying!...Castiel prepares to be cast back onto the border of life and death, for Morael and the others, for battle, for pain and flight and capture and interrogation...

But it never happens; instead he is flung a much shorter distance back into the entombment of his own lifeless corpse.

SNSNSNSNSNSN

_Hope you enjoyed that. Cas' prayer is something I lifted from the Catholic funeral mass. Although obviously I played around with it and spliced it like a madwoman with Latin/English/Enochian._ _Feel free to leave a review if this is something you're following. I tend to work on a few stories at a time, but I try to pay more attention to ones that seem to have the bigger folowing._ _Thanks for spending some time with my little story today _ _-Amazon_


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